Pierogi and Paluszki
by Queen of the Squares
Summary: Ada is a girl that can always figure it out. She's accepted into the shady International Schooling Foundation. She doesn't want to go, but has too. She meets Feliks and can't figure him out. This is one mystery leaving her thirsting for more.PolandOC


My eyes widened as I read over the sheet my sister had forcefully shoved into my hands. It was the brochure for _the International Schooling Foundation_, or in Polish, _Międzynarodowa Edukacja Fundacja. _

"Ada, pospiesz się! Musimy iść tak możemy spotkać Feliks!" **(Ada, hurry up! We have to go so we can meet Feliks!) **My mother exclaimed to me, her brown eyes wide in anticipation.

"Mother, I don't know about this…" my brows furrowed as I read on. Weaponry…? Fighting…?

It's like they were trying to teach us to be knights. Why should we know those things?

"Get your toiletries and uniform from you bag, Ada," my mother told me, watching as I pulled it out. We hit a bump on the road, making my brush fly out. I zipped my bag again.

"Mother, this place sounds really sketchy…" I told her, trying to say how I'm not happy about going. Yes, it's an honor, but something just doesn't seem right.

"No, stop it. You have to go now," she pushed me into the building, up the stairs and too the meeting room, throwing open the door, she said, "Bring honor to our family!"

"Dzień dobry," I said politely to the boy. He looked over at me. His hair was light blonde and down to his chin, framing his face. He had green eyes (Not very common in Poland) and was wearing a salmon colored shirt. He was cute, I had to admit that, but he seemed really snobby.

"Dzień dobry," he replied, at least he has manners, "So, I'm like, Feliks."

"Ada," I answered him, holding out a hand. His cheeks tinted pink and he gulped, flustered, not taking my outstretched limb. I pulled it back awkwardly, "You could at least be a little nice, głupi."

"I am, like, so being nice!" he grabbed some paluszki and gnawed on the end.

I sniffed, "Pierogi are better." Pierogi just so happen to be my favorite food. They're little dumplings with massive amounts of all different types of fillings, usually sauerkraut, potato, ground meat, cheese, or fruit.

"Pierogi may be good, but like, paluszki would beat them any day."

"You want to beat? Pierogi could kick paluszki ass!"

"At least I, like, don't look like a Pierogi!"

"Are you saying I'm fat?" I must have looked pretty evil right then, because he paled.

"Nie! Nie!" he stuttered, flustered, "You're look like total paluszki!"

I know he's just saying this to make me appeased and _not_ kill him, but since I know this, I'm not at _all_ appeased. But, I'll let it slide. I'm not going to keep pushing it. If he thinks I'm fat, then he thinks I'm fat. I don't want false recognition of skinniness. I can get that anywhere. Honestly though, I'm nowhere near fat.

"If you want to see a human Pierogi, then look at Brygida Borkowski," I told him. I really do hate her. She's a total _suka_! I want her to go and die!

That's so mean! I take it back. I just want her to go somewhere else and never come back. She should move to… to… to…

…America! That's where all the snobby _suki_ like her are!

"Brygida?" he asked, "I think I, like, know her. Doesn't she have like, yellow hair and blue eyes?"

"And a _głupi_ personality!" I had to add.

"Like, totally! She said that I'm a total homosexual!"

"She thinks all the boys at our secondary school were gay," I said dismissively, "It's only because they wouldn't go out with her. Of course it's not _her_ fault. It's never the _common denominators_ fault when a relationship fails. She doesn't get how everyone hates her! She's such a suka!"

He seemed flustered at my babble –he's a very flustered boy –and he stuttered, "Yes!" in agreement. I couldn't tell if he was just agreeing to be agreeing and not get hit, or agreeing because he actually agreed. I honestly can't fathom this boy! He's so weird. I can't get why he's so shy. He just says things, then gets all discombobulated and worked up about it. I don't get this boy. He's such an enigma and I can't figure it out. That is something I don't like. Why can't I figure him out? Why can't I understand what he's thinking? This makes me mad.

Even if we share a common dislike for Brygida, that's not enough to get him on my good side.

"Delegates, you are to board the plane now," a strongly accented and brawny Polish man said, stepping into the room. He was followed by a shorter, more… dumpling-like man who stood next to him, "We have already moved your things and they have been transported to your rooms at _Międzynarodowa Edukacja Fundacja."_

I'm really good at reading people. I can immediately tell that this man isn't used to speaking English. It's clear from the way he awkwardly shapes his words and how his sentences are disjointed. Also, he had a small look of relief in his eye and his posture slightly slackened when he slipped back into his native tongue. I slid my eyes over the other's rigid posture and the way he stood with his shoulders turned away from the taller man. I know that he's intimidated by the tall man.

"Danke," I reply, nodding and walking to them. Feliks followed (I can see his reflection in the glasses of the tall man) and the turned, keeping Feliks hidden from my view and showing us where the plane is.

.

It's a very nice jet, a private one with beautiful white upholstery that's soft, reclining seats that have footrests, televisions with an outstandingly real picture (although I couldn't understand what was being said since it was in Spanish), and red roses in an aesthetic glass vase with pretty patterning on it. The place is cozy and warm, with "Room Service" and I don't have to sit around Feliks, who has made camp on the other side of the "Room" and is chewing nervously on his precious paluszki.

What is it with him and those sticks? I don't even like them that much! True Polish food is the best, but Pierogi reign supreme! Nothing can match up to the luscious dough that practically melts on your tongue… or the burst of delicious flavors that dance inside your mouth as you bite into it…

It's totally better than those _głupi_ paluszki!

"Are you like, ever going to get changed?" Feliks asked me, fiddling with the hem of his red uniform shirt. I can tell he's still very bashful around me.

"I will when I feel like it," I snapped. Maybe that was a bit too harsh. It was an honest question. I sighed, taking in a breath, "I will when we get closer to the academy."

To be honest, I feel kind of self-conscious about the uniform. It's a white collared shirt (button down) with short sleeves (the shirt looks the same as Feliks's, but his is red and has long sleeves). That's ok, as long as I wear either a white or beige bra… but the skirt…

It's way too skimpy. It barely even reaches mid-thigh and is a light fabric so it flows in the wind. The high-waist band gives me curves, and it makes me look promiscuous, and the boots make me look like I have long legs (which I don't, I have a longer torso), and that looks weird because I have a long torso! Then, skin on my thighs show –even with the boots –and that just looks weird!

I hate these uniforms.

* * *

**This is a companion story to **_**High School Sunday.**_** This is Ada's journey through the International Schooling Foundation. The stories will tie together at parts; they are inter-weaving, so expect that. **


End file.
